Wrecking Ball
by rabbitastrophe
Summary: They try to heal, every week, by standing in the Room of Requirement, by ignoring House prejudice. They try to ignore the searing pain of loss and sorrow by holding a microphone in their hands. [Multi-pairing, Slytherins x Gryffindors]


There was something known as _too_ reckless, according to the Slytherins, standing in a room they had all wanted to avoid after the war. For Goyle and Malfoy, the Room was still filled with screams and ashes and dust in their mouths. For Pansy, it was the memory of who she had lost within these walls. Granger and Potter and Weasley they had the reminder of red, burning flames chasing them, with darkness whispering venom at them.

A quiet boot tapped on the wooden floor, regular pace, regular beat.

Smirk on someone's lips and bottles of firewhiskey on a low table.

No glasses, nothing but their lips to the neck and fire pouring in their throat.

Pansy closed her eyes. Anything to forget, anything to let go.

Goyle came behind her and his laugh, a rough around the edges sound, boomed on her back. She turned to look at him and he held a microphone between a hand too big.

"Shall we?" Was all Malfoy said and for once his eyes weren't hard, cold.

It was Zabini who gave them the beat but it was Granger – _of all things_ – who came forward and she grabbed the microphone and suddenly her deep, clear voice echoed against walls too cold.

 _Are you insane like me? Been in pain like me?  
Bought a hundred dollar bottle of champagne like me?  
Just to pour that motherfucker down the drain like me?  
Would you use your water bill to drain the stain line me?_

And she laughed and it was raw and she poured her heart out to them but Malfoy – Malfoy couldn't let her have this round and so he walked forward and he was standing too close – so close she could smell the hints of cologne, of sandalwood and old books –

 _Baby, can't you see  
I'm calling  
A guy like you  
Should wear a warning  
It's dangerous  
I'm fallin'_

And the Slytherins erupted in laughter at the face of the Gryffindors. Malfoy was grinning, challenging Potter to move forward. _One up me_ was what his mouth said but _Toxic's_ lyrics where what left his lips. No, Potter didn't walk to him but Weaselette did and his grin turned feral at the little fiery girl who had grown into a woman.

She stood tall as she delicately picked the microphone-

No one questioned how the Room adjusted to their songs before they could even think about it.

 _We clawed, we chained, our hearts in vain  
We jumped, never asking why  
We kissed, I fell under your spell  
A love no one could deny_

And if there was one thing the Slytherins didn't expect, it was Miley Crus and the wrecking ball that fell from the high ceiling – or the hysterical voices that rose around them, as Potter walked to it and grabbed the chain and hung from it –

And it was with that image that Ginny whispered

 _It slowly turned, you let me burn  
And now we're ashes on the ground_

And there was nothing as true as this fact, as the lyrics died out on her tongue.

They would never be the same, they would always be broken, destroyed, ashes.

So many of their people, from one side of the other, that they deserved it or not – so many of them were lost, dust to dust, ashes to ashes and it hurt to think of it – as Potter hung still from the chain, as his laughter turned into tears at the corner of his eyes.

He looked at the ceiling, thinking of his godfather, of his parents, of Tonks and Remus and he thought about all of them, his only voice that never, never sang with them, to alleviate their pain, to try to chase away their sorrow.

"Next time?" Goyle asked.

And if someone noticed the care in his voice, they didn't comment on it.  
Potter nodded.

"Next week, same time?"

No Slytherin, no Gryffindor would comment on their adventures every Thursday night, on what they were doing in the Room of Requirement.

It all started with hummed lyrics, one afternoon – and a surprising dash of courage from Malfoy, to lead them to the only way they felt like they were healing.

They could borrow these words, these words that hurt, that hawed and huffed and clawed and _destroyed_ and try to stamp them on their losses and pain.

 _Heal, heal, heal_ was what went on their minds, as they left the room, one after the other, Goyle's presence a bit too close of Potter, or the shy hand of a red-head slipped into a dark-haired woman's hand.

 _Heal quickly._

Maybe, maybe they would sleep better at night, with the image of Potter swinging on a wrecking ball, or with Ganger's hair crackling with magic.


End file.
